Perfect

"Have I ever told you…"

Harvey's voice trails off as Donna glances up from where she's sat reading in his leather guest chair. He's sprawled out on the sofa opposite her, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, and wearing the biggest doe-eyed smile she's ever seen. She doesn't frequent his apartment often, and when she does, her stay is usually short and for different reasons. But the dentist had warned her it would take a few hours for the Nitrous Oxide to wear off, and the professional hadn't been wrong about the strong effects.

For the past forty minutes, Harvey's been happily entertaining himself with a shiny paper weight. Picking it up, staring at it for a considerable while, and then putting it back down on the table—the action repeating itself on a continuous loop.

She let him have at it, because why not? She'd been immersed in her book, and he'd been out of harm's way. There was no good reason to steal away his toy.

Except now, the object seems to have lost his attention, and he's staring at her, grinning like an idiot.

God, she's going to have fun teasing him about this tomorrow, and she definitely shouldn't encourage his behaviour… but if she's honest, it's been a rough twelve months on all of them. Losing Mike and Rachel, the firm's merger, and a hundred other things had all side-swept them. She's relieved to see him unburdened for once, and quirks her lips at the boyish gleam he's wearing—the carelessness reminding her of a young Harvey back in the DA's office. "Ever told me, what?"

He slants his head to the side, like he's nonplussed holding up the weight, focused on her instead. "You have really pretty hair."

She snorts, keeping her thumb at the passage she's been reading so not to lose her place. "Well, yours isn't bad either, James Dean."

He's still for a beat, the joke obviously lost on him, before he crinkles his nose and clumsily scrubs a hand over his short spikes. When he brings his palm back down, he stares at it intently for a moment. "Mine's not soft... doesn't smell like strawberries."

She almost bursts out laughing at his indignant pout, and bites her lip to refrain from upsetting him. But instead of getting annoyed at her lapse, his face relaxes with a content, albeit slurred, sigh.

"You should do that more often."

"Do what?" she asks, probing his disjointed thoughts.

"Smile." The word leaves in a bubble of air, and he hiccups, swallowing the distraction with a soft, wistful stare. "You're not just a pretty face… you're beautiful, really really pretty, you know?"

Her cheeks flush scarlet, caught off guard by the compliment, but she's granted a quick reprieve from the dentist's assurance that most of this will be a blur to Harvey tomorrow. That's why they don't let patients go home unsupervised, and why she folds over the book in her hand, not wanting to run the risk of either of them winding up mortified. "How about I make us a drink?"

"Mmmm… whiskey."

He hums the request, and she pushes up from the chair, rolling her eyes. "You can have tea." He screws his brow together like a petulant child, but she's not about to let him mix alcohol with the gas he's on. He's going to be foggy and in enough pain when the drugs wear off—he doesn't need a hangover on top of everything else. "You'll be glad tomorrow, trust me."

She tries to skim by his side of his couch, but he catches her wrist with a gentle grasp, clearly over his tantrum, and entranced by her freckles instead.

"So many stars…" He mumbles against her skin, and the hairs on her arm stand to attention as he absently brushes his thumb in small, delicate circles.

She swallows thickly, trying to distract him with a soothing tone. "You can count them all later. After I make us a drink."

He glances up, his gaze swimming with a mysterious twinkle, and she really should know better than to indulge him. He's high as a kite, and might not remember, but she'd promised to protect his dignity—sworn she wouldn't let him do anything stupid... but his eyes are filled with something that shouldn't be so close to the surface, and she can feel herself on the fast track to failing.

She needs to be firmer with him, and is about to issue a warning when he suddenly tugs her with surprising strength, causing her feet to trip over themselves, landing her square in his lap.

He grins—the smile smug and charming, and the embodiment of all things Harvey Specter, as his large hands fit to keep her in place.

She should scold him, at least untangle herself, but his face fills with a light-hearted playfulness that, if she could, she'd bottle for safe keeping.

She loves seeing him happy, and can't help the small thread of amusement that lifts the corners of her mouth.

"See, got you... You're smiling."

He gleams the achievement, and she shakes her head at how ridiculous he's being. "You're an idiot."

"You're perfect." Nothing in his expression changes. Only the angle of his attention as he sinks forward, brushing her hair with his nose and inhaling deeply. "Mmm, see… perfect strawberries."

"All right, Casanova. Come on." She puts a stop to his antics, cupping his jaw to guide him back up. "You're high, remember? I'm here to stop you—"

She doesn't get the chance to finish.

His lips slant loosely over the warning, tugging her mouth with considerable poise and control—given he shouldn't be able to feel anything. It's an almost perfect kiss, but she knows she has to stop him, and pushes lightly on his chest, searching his gaze to try and read through the haze of drugs clouding his judgment.

She doesn't have to wonder what he's thinking for long though, because for once, he tells her exactly what's going through his mind with a breathy slur.

"I wish it could be like this all the time."

Her heart skips a beat. Not sure if he's referring to them or being high and this unafraid of himself. He's never let himself fall over the precipice of his control, which is the reason she knows it would be unethical to probe his intimate thoughts.

He'd trusted her to take care of him.

She just hopes some part of his subconscious remembers that the world didn't end when he'd taken a risk by admitting his feelings

"It can be, Harvey," she whispers softly, needing him to know that all he has to do is want the change badly enough—access everything he tries to bury during the cold, sober light of day.

They could have everything.

A thought she holds onto as she frees herself from his lap, caught somewhere between hopeful and scared that this will just be another moment lost between them.

But maybe it won't be.

Maybe someday they really will have everything.

—